Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Monday, June 02, 2008
I was thinking about my life which basically means I was thinking about my career which basically means I was depressed. And when I get depressed the default synapse browser is set to refresh to music because music is my drug of choice. (I know, you thought it was alcohol. Alcohol is actually quite far down on the list of my drugs of choice. A sort of "in the event of an emergency if all else fails imbibe alcohol" thing.)
It's no secret I'm a huge Pixies fan. (All hail implied) It's a well documented fact I liked Nirvana a lot. But before Nirvana, before the Pixies there was the only band that matters.
I've never loved that slogan/designation/arrogant assumption. But I was thinking about life, you know, in general, life, 20th, 21st centuries, and songs and stuff and ya know what? By golly, it may just actually be true. They may actually be the only band that really matters in a hundred or more years.
Huh. And I thought that was just all marketing baby, marketing.
The soundtrack to my musings was created by synapses firing off lyrics and guitar riffs. London calling has an anthemic caché for the era. Straight to Hell yeah, well, I mean, a lot of people hold this up as the song that matters. And yeah, I suppose at the time it did, and it does now, too. As I sat there contemplating my job (for now) and coworkers (for now) Straight to Hell played as the humorously poignant background music. Know your rights. Ha. I mean. Well. I mean, there's nothing more to say. The song says it all and the retro guitar work is inspired genius. Also serves as ironically humorous and poignant background music. As an aside I swear this is true. Last year I heard a muzak version of Know Your Rights. Unless there's another song which is musically identical to it, there is a muzak version floating in the airwaves of society.
Then the synapses slow down, the gray matter calms and I'm all lost in the supermarket. And that's when I realized that yes, just maybe, the Clash is the only band that matters when you're talking about poetry and artistry defining a culture and an era. The metaphoric malaise, the plodding along, the generia, saving coupons and trying to tune out the unpleasantness around you - even going so far as to try a giant hits! album - to just move along, go with the crowd, trying to blend in and hoping everything will be all right. And as long as you're okay with a generic throw-away shallow existence which can be procured and summed up by a trip to a supermarket then it's smooth sailing. But if you're not okay plodding through a generic life filled with fake excitement*, finding your way out of the supermarket is lonely and scary and confusing. Based on the tone and angst and metaphors and the assertion of being lost in the supermarket, we assume the Clash are not okay with this state of being, either.
Yeah, yeah, whatever, Trill, geesh, are you just now getting it?
No. It's just that I'm lost in the supermarket (metaphorically) and the irony is that my job, my career, is creating the hype for soul draining, individuality sapping, culture killing supermarket generia. I'm part of the volatile molatov.
Crap. I really am going straight to Hell. Boys.
Yeah, yeah, whatever. I knew, I know, my profession is a joke and for someone with personal integrity and a fairly decent moral compass I sure did choose an unlikely profession. Look. I didn't choose it, it chose me.
Like a demon lover, it fascinates and repugnates me. (Like that? Repugnate? Yeah, me, too. Repugnate: The act of being repugnant. I can't believe it's not a word.) Right. It fascinates and repugnates me. It inspires and bores me. It thrills and violates me. I didn't ask for this life, I didn't choose to "get it," I never meant to be one of them.
And I'm not. Really. I'm not. I'm different.
Or, well, I dunno. Probably not so much. Because if I were different I wouldn't feel all lost in the supermarket.
See? That's the point. Certain things matter, you know, to people. Now and years from now. The Clash do matter. They will matter.
But the most of the rest of us? Well. Not so much. We're part of a boring, generic, stupid uninspired era.
Uh-uh, not me, Trill. I matter. I am different.
Yeah, I know. Of course you matter. Of course you're different. You might even have the tattoo(s) to prove you're different and unique and artsy and out there. Like everyone else who has tattoos. Hey, by the way, did you catch American Idol or Dancing with the Stars or LOST or have you downloaded the new Coldplay from iTunes or had a Coughuppalattebucks or shopped at Target (or worse, Wal-Mart)?
Welcome to generia. Population: You and everyone else who swears they're different. We're all all lost in the supermarket of life, baby.
Don't you hate it when irony is so bitterly poignant?
I didn't want the Clash to be the only band that matters. One of the bands that matters, sure. To be sure. Right up there. But the only one? I mean, c'mon, that's a bit presumptive and smacks heavily of PR spin. Which is exactly what The Clash rallied against. So that slogan can't be right. It just can't. It's just wrong.
And yet I'm starting to believe the hype. I'm starting to understand it may be true.
Marketing baby, marketing. Prophets for profit.
This is where, if I was smarter, cleverer, more insightful, more profound, more future matter-worthy, I'd insert ways and ideas for breaking out of the rut of generia and making big marks on the world for the future to look back upon fondly.
There are people doing this. There are capable people out there doing a lot of things to compass their way out of the supermarket. And that's supercool. Yay them. Whew. We were almost doomed there for a minute.
But I'm not one of them. I can't even figure out what to do with my life outside the supermarket let alone figure out a way to forge a path for others. I know I can no longer shop (or sell) happily. But. Now what?
See? That's the problem with prophetic metaphors. Strummer and the boys saw the problem, isolated it and warned us. But, here we are 30, yes, really 30 years later and we're more lost in the supermarket than we ever were.
*Seriously, just how much more exciting can laundry detergent get? How much sexier can lipstick get? Or beer? Based on advertising you'd think these products were new to the market, that we've never had laundry detergent or lipstick or beer. It's fake excitement meant to encite fake enthusiasm for the same old stuff we've known about for years. Why the assault and insult to our intelligence? Why? Marketing baby, marketing. The fact is: We are stupid and we are swayed by advertising. Oh sure, maybe not you, maybe not me, maybe not that guy over there, we're all much too savvy to be swayed. But we are part of this society and culture and guess what? The numbers don't lie. "We" are swayed by advertising, even advertising which insults "our" intelligence. "We" are equal to the whole, and the whole is measured by the lowest common denominator. You may be a remarkable numerator, but your neighbors and fellow culture-mates are bringing down the denominator and lowering our stats and cred. I know, no one mentioned math. No one said there'd be math. Sorry. There's math. There's always math.
10:28 PM
